


captain of my soul

by A_Starry_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Not so much a case fic as a recovery fic, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: When the unthinkable happens, John's world is turned upside down. But not all is as it seems, and when it comes down to it the most damaging enemy isn't a man at all, but the mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I came to the Sherlock BBC fandom very very late but I've grown to love it a lot. This isn't the first fic I've written for it but it's the first one I've mostly finished.
> 
> I enjoyed seasons 3 and 4 but for the purposes of this story they didn't happen, so it's AU for anything after The Reichenbach Fall. Deals with themes of PTSD and panic attacks, and may be triggering for some, so please tread carefully.

"John? John, open your eyes! John!"

_Bombs are flying, exploding far too close for comfort. Sand is working its gritty way down the collar of his uniform and is biting into the skin of his shoulders and upper back with insistent diligance. He feels cold despite the heat of the day and despite the sweat trickling down his face as he works to save the life of the soldier beneath his hands._

_Gunshot wound to the upper abdomen, to the right of the aorta; not immediately lethal but still life-threatening (as all gunshots can be). There's no exit wound but he's not entirely pleased by that. Too often bullets still in the body can ricochet off of a rib or tear through organs as it moves, and sometimes it's impossible to remove because of where it stops._

"Look at me, John. Open your eyes!"

_Dark red blood-- fresh blood, too close to the heart-- is staining the man's shirt like a rose bloom. The sight leaves him inexplicably light-headed and it's growing harder to breathe. What the hell is going on? He never has panic attacks while on the field, never falls apart when the shells are flying-- no, that comes later, when he's alone. There's a painful stitch in his side, a roaring in his ears._

_He wants to sleep._

"Damn it, John! Don't you dare die on me!"

_It's growing harder to catch a breath but still he tries to staunch the bleeding, hoping to save this soldier's life. A sniper's bullet hits the dirt near them, making the others scatter; John stays where he is, desperate and terrified and oh-so-gloriously alive like he only ever is in the warzone._

_Too much blood. The thought and realization hits him painfully as he looks down and the obvious becomes clear; blood splatters the soldier's uniform and stains the sand in areas that he can't have fallen on. Startled and confused (it's growing grey on the edge of his vision), he lifts a hand to his own torso where he can feel a pain and when his fingers withdraw blood shines up at him. It's run down his front and soaked into his jumper._

"Please, I need an ambulance here at 221B Baker Street. There's been a shooting."

_It's nearly impossible to breathe now, the grey swiftly deteriorating to black, and as John flounders to stay conscious, to grab hold of anything that will keep his head above the waters that are sucking him down, he chances a glance at the soldier's face. There's no breath left in his lungs to scream as he loses the battle and everything goes black._

_The soldier shares his face._

\------

He surfaces briefly to murky confusion and muted pain. He can't breathe properly and he whimpers deep in his throat as he realizes that he can't move. He tries to speak but can't; there's something blocking his throat. Before he can start falling to pieces, he feels thin fingers grasp his left hand.

"John," the old woman's voice cracks, "it's all right. You're in hospital."

He wants to tell her he can't breathe properly, wants desperately to sit up and ask what has happened, but he still can't move and his eyes aren't opening. The pull of unconsciousness drags at him again and with another slight whimper he's swept under again.

\------

The cold antiseptic smell of the hospital is what John smells first when he manages to claw his way to awareness. It's a tedious process-- his world is hazy and unreal, and he's not entirely grounded in reality. With every step he takes towards awareness the dull ache sharpens to pain.

It's like Afghanistan all over again.

The memory of blood and agony, of pleas to a God he only half believes in, jolts him-- both mentally and physically. His mind clears startlingly quickly and he feels his body jerk involuntarily, sending a dulled ripple of hot prickliness shivering through his torso. He opens bleary eyes to find himself staring up at the pitted white ceiling tiles of one of St. Bart's hospital rooms, with the steady beeping of a heart monitor keeping time in his ears and an IV in each arm. Despite the ache in his body he feels strangely numb and his mind feels stuffed with cotton-- there's something important that he can't remember right now, something that has shifted everything, but he can't recall it. It unsettles him more than he's willing to admit.

"John!"

The small exclamation near the other side of the room draws his foggy attention and he turns his head to find Mrs. Hudson sitting tensely in one of the chairs, pale and drawn with lines of exhaustion dug deeply beneath her eyes. She stands and rushes over to his side, hands seeking for his own as she speaks. "John, thank goodness, we've been so worried-- we nearly lost you..."

Alarm bells are ringing somewhere in John's head; dimly he's aware that the heart monitor is picking up but he can't make heads or tails of what this all means. Was it a case? Worse yet, is it Moriarty?

But no-- that's not right. If there's anything John is sure of it's that James Moriarty is dead. The criminal mastermind has been dead for almost three years now and his vast network has been dismantled man by man by Mycroft's plan and--

"Sh'rl'ck." The name slips out unbidden. "Where's... Sherlock?" He has to clear his throat before he can finish the question, and his alarm rages to almost painful levels as Mrs. Hudson suddenly flounders and the color drains from her face. Her mouth opens and closes in helpless silence several times before she simply shakes her head. John's almost trembling he's so confused and upset; the important thing he's forgetting is only growing harder to ignore. If he can only remember it it will explain Sherlock's absence, and why John himself is lying in a hospital bed.

He can't remember.

The door opening interrupts his whirling thoughts, and he looks to the door to find that Greg Lestrade is peeking in. Grim and tousle-haired, he looks like he's aged a decade like he only ever does on the most difficult of cases. The relief on his face seeing John awake is just as powerful and frightening as it had been on Mrs. Hudson. "John!" The door swings open all the way and he strides in without realizing how loudly he's just spoken. "I can't tell you, mate, how much of a relief it is to see you awake."

"What's happened, Greg?" The sandpaper scrape of his dry throat makes it impossible to speak louder than a whisper, and Mrs. Hudson goes to find water for him. Anxiety and confusion is thrumming deep in John's gut and he has to know.

The question brings the copper up short; for a moment his expression is raw pain similar to the old landlady's, but then he pulls himself together and he's hidden his emotion behind the DI's collected mask. "You don't remember." It's not a question, and he swears harshly under his breath as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. 

"Is Sherlock-- dead?" His tongue trips over the last word and he wants to throw up at the thought. _'Not now,_ please, _not now! I've only just got him back._ ' It had been two of the bleakest years of John's life when he had believed that Sherlock was dead, and he's struggled to keep his friendship the same easy way it's always been after Sherlock revealed his deception. He can't bear the thought that his best friend is truly lost to him now.

"No-- no, John!" Greg is quick to reassure him of that, but the copper's distress only seems to deepen. "No, he's still alive as far as we know, but--"

"But what?" The words are loud and they cause another dull pain to shudder through John's body; bewildered and growing angry at the lack of straight answers, he manages to locate the source of the pain and freezes when he sees the gauze-covered wound. His brow furrows as he looks down at it in dumbstruck silence, his sense of confusion only deepening, and when he looks up there's something lost in his expression. "Greg?"

"You really don't remember. God Almighty..." The copper is trying to maintain his composure in the face of the unexpected development but he sees no way around it. "John... he's-- Sherlock is currently wanted for your attempted murder. He's on the run."

\------

"You know better than to reveal anything of an upsetting nature to patients, Detective Inspector." Doctor Rachel Taylor's gaze is a mite frosty as she stands with crossed arms in the hallway by the nurse's station, daring Greg to nay say her. She's been employed at St. Bart's long enough to know how the DI handles situations such as these, which only adds to her disbelief that he could mess this one up so spectacularly. "How did you think that revealing to Mr. Watson that he's been shot by his own flatmate was a good idea?"

"Doctor," he snaps. "Doctor Watson." He flinches when he realizes how short he's sounded, and shifts restlessly on his feet. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just... this is hitting a bit too close to home right now. John's a mate of mine, and a mutual friend between us has laid him up here."

"Sherlock Holmes," she supplies for him, and her gaze is definitely colder now. "Yes, we know. The story has made its way into the papers by now-- it's been a week, of course we know, DI Lestrade. Just catch the bastard, yeah?"

He swallows down his reflexive anger at her final words, but they cut deep nonetheless; he wonders how they could have all gone so wrong in trusting Sherlock. Greg has always wanted to believe the best of Sherlock Holmes-- even through the man's darkest hour with Moriarty-- but this... this is unspeakable. The unbelievable. Because Sherlock shot John at close range while in their flat and left the latter to bleed out on the floor. Until the day he dies Greg is sure he'll never forget the sickening lurch to his stomach when he received the call about the shooting, or when he'd arrived at the crime scene the knowledge that it was a miracle John had made it to the hospital alive at all.

He's sitting hunched over his desk an hour later, gazing down at the photos that the team has of 221B's living room when he hears the sound of his door opening. His eyes widen. "My god, Mycroft."

Sherlock's older brother lets himself in without invitation, his expression just as icy and aloof as Greg remembers and not one hair out of place. "Detective Inspector," he says in that sharp, reptilian way of his, and Greg's spine tingles with muted dislike. He doesn't seat himself at the copper's prompting. "This is not a social call, Lestrade," Mycroft states without preamble, "nor should you believe I am asking when I tell you to hand over every scrap of evidence you have about Sherlock's shooting Doctor Watson and pursue it no further."

The words are so infuriating that it takes a full ten seconds before they actually compute, and when they do Greg shoots to his feet. "You son of a bitch! Like hell I'll let your brother get away with this-- John flat-lined twice on the way to hospital, and once after the surgery, he almost died because of Sherlock! You don't have the right--"

"On the contrary, Inspector," Mycroft cuts in with a razor's edge smile, "you will find that I have _every_ right." Which, frankly, doesn't help with his overall archenemy persona _at all_. He looms over the desk all with that same smile on his face. "I will overlook your rather emotive declarations in this circumstance, Lestrade, but be forewarned that any further protests will result in severe repercussions for you. Do not assume that I am not going to pursue the resolution of my brother's crime-- but what he has done, and where he will try to go is not within either your jurisdiction nor your reach. The files, Detective Inspector."

Greg's legs give out and he falls heavily back into his chair as he takes in Mycroft's warnings. Still inwardly raging against the cruelty of the man's orders he gathers together the pictures and the statements and other information and hands the folder over with shaking hands.

As if to add insult to injury, the smug bastard opens the folder again and glances at the pictures. If he's anything like Sherlock (and he is), then Greg knows that Mycroft has already read more into the crime itself and drawn correct conclusions about it than any of the coppers put together, but still he's viciously pleased when he sees the man's expression freeze when seeing the last photo.

"How long was Doctor Watson alone before the ambulance came?" Mycroft asks softly.

Clearing his throat, Greg answers shortly. "About four minutes. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard the gunshot and come up to check what it was about, I don't know how it would have all turned out."

"Yes," Mycroft agrees, but it's said so much like Sherlock when he knows more than he's willing to say that Greg's suspicions rise. 

"You'll catch him?"

"Assuredly." The icy smile is gone, and Mycroft's mouth has thinned. He's more shaken by the evidence than he's willing to show. He flips the file closed and straightens again. "Good day to you, Inspector. I am sure you will take my advice seriously."

"Up yours, arsehole," Greg mutters after the door closes. The silence is stifling, too thick and cloying suddenly, and in a rare pique of frustration he slams his palms against the surface of the desk that is too bare of evidence. He has to trust that Mycroft Holmes will uphold the law in this circumstance but he has a horrible feeling that all he has done is enabled the elder brother to sweep the younger's actions under the rug. " _Damn it_."

He can only hope he's wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There I was writing this chapter up and I started discussing various gunshot wounds and the damage bullets can/will do with a cop who came into my place of work at 2am. Fun times.

~/~/~/~/~

"Doctor Watson."

The familiar tone of Mycroft's voice wakes John from the light doze he's managed to slip into; turning his head on the pillow he finds that, sure enough, the elder Holmes is standing in the doorway like a suited Grim Reaper.

John has always had a rather black sense of humor-- he stifles a smirk and tells himself that the only reason he wants to laugh is because of the drugs in his system. "Godfather Death," he says anyway, and immediately wants to smother himself with his pillow. "God... _dammit_."

Mycroft's eyebrow twitches upwards in a vaguely amused way as he lets the door click shut behind him. "I'll be sure to stand at the head of the bed, yes?" he replies easily, and John sucks the edge of the pillowcase into his mouth to keep from giggling. The humor of the moment fades quickly, however, and Mycroft is as impervious as always as he seats himself. "Although it would still be astonishingly easy to stand at the foot of your bed and fill out the paperwork detailing your rather tragic demise--"

"Don't you dare, Mycroft," John orders him sharply. "I've made it through the surgery, my vitals are strong-- what could you possibly use as an excuse to make it seem I'd suddenly up and died?"

"You're the doctor, are you not?" Mycroft offers blandly. "You tell me."

Blood clots form undetected. Infection that grows in the wound. Several such reasons-- all of which he has seen as a doctor-- pass through his thoughts at lightning speed, and he's very careful not to say any of them aloud. He stays silent, knowing that Mycroft is here for a reason and hopes that his silence will buy him a response.

"How are you doing, John?"

"Been better," he says with a roll of his eyes, but there's no bite to his voice. The pain is manageable with the help of the morphine but still it's hard to sit up straight without the pull of the wound. 

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft states without infliction. "I've gotten DI Lestrade to hand over any and all information pertaining to your case. The New Scotland Yard has no further jurisdiction in the pursuit of my brother."

John falls back on his pillow and blows out a heavy breath. "Good," he breathes, closing his eyes.

There is a moment of silence; if he were to look over, John knows that Mycroft is deducing him and drawing conclusions. The latter's voice is as mild as ever as he asks, "No resentments?"

"I don't want Sherlock dead." John speaks shortly, his focus now riveted very carefully on the ceiling. He curls his fingers into his fists but he's vaguely pleased that the tremor in his left isn't back, and he slowly spreads them out on top of the sheets. "You know that."

"I do," Mycroft replies primly; "I was wondering if you remembered that as well."

John can't find an answer to that, and he suspects that Sherlock's brother isn't expecting one, either, because he clears his throat and continues the rather one-sided conversation. "You will be moved to a secure location, of course, once transportation is arranged--"

The doctor bristles despite himself. "Absolutely not," he growls, feeling suddenly cold. Against his better judgment he tries to sit up and grinds his teeth when his body reminds him why that's a bad idea. Mycroft simply looks on, unimpressed. "You will not be toting off to a super-secret, super-secure Alcatraz where I'll never see the light of day--"

"It will only until this passes over, Doctor Watson--"

"Just a second ago you knew my first name, and it's not all that hard to remember. Don't use my title to patronize me, _Mycroft_."

His reply is a truly glacial smile. "Most would not be brave enough to speak so in my presence."

"And as you've so eloquently said before, bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, so thank you for the compliment. Now piss off and let me go back to Baker Street." Dear Lord, he must have a death wish. Of course, he's never had a problem telling Sherlock's brother off, and there's no reason to stop now. When Mycroft opens his mouth, he interrupts. "No. Not happening. Not at all. I'm going home."

"Is Baker Street still your home?" Mycroft asks idly. "It is, after all, the place where you were shot-- betrayed-- by my brother."

"I'm fine." Okay, not fine so much, but he's alive even if was touch and go there for awhile. He holds out his hands for emphasis. "I'm not leaving, so drop the subject."

"They had to scrub your blood from the floorboards."

Now John flinches, and his anger surges forward. "Get out, Mycroft, before I hit you."

"Seeing as you are currently unable to sit upright due to your wound, and you would likely collapse when you stood, you will be unlikely to inflict much damage."

"You want to test that?"

Mycroft pauses for a moment and clearly he sees something there in John's expression that convinces him because he stands. "I will take my leave, then." John counts it as a victory, but of course it doesn't stop the elder Holmes' remark as he heads for the door, "I will speak to your doctor about perhaps lessening your drug intake-- it seems to be an inhibitor to your common sense."

And John will swear later that he was merely driving the drug point home when without any effort at all he finds himself giggling again. "It's just the gas."

The utterly confused, slightly horrified look on Mycroft's face only makes him laugh harder. He doesn't think now is the time to introduce the British Government to 'Little Shop of Horrors'.

~/~/~/~/~

Healing from a gunshot wound is not as easy as the movies would lead a body to believe; the bullet tears through inches of muscle at indescribable speeds and the inertia reacts like a shockwave. The initial reaction causes ripples that affect an area much larger than the initial entrance wound, and if there's an exit wound as well it's automatically double the damage even if it's better for the bullet to go directly through.

John is fortunate in his case that the bullet had stayed inside him-- if it had gone through it was likely he would have bled out before the ambulance came. Fact or not, it's still a hellishly long time before he ventures back to 221B; an infection had started to fester in the soft tissues of the tract left by the bullet. John has never been so eager to walk out the doors of St. Bart's but he still feels a slight twinge of dread when seeing the seventeen steps leading up to the flat.

"All right, mate, let's get this over with, yeah?"

If John has any other close friends than Sherlock, it's Greg Lestrade. They had had a decent acquaintance well before the day at St. Bart's but it was really after The Fall that the copper showed what mettle he had. He'd been the one who refused to let the doctor wallow in his grief even as John purposely ignored everyone and withdrew from interacting from simple human contact.

He's also the one who refused to take any of the doctor's shit.

_'"You can sit there feeling mad at the world, and you can sure as hell hoard your grief over what's happened, but don't you fucking dare think you're the only one who has the right to.' Exasperated and tired and heartsick, Greg runs his fingers through his hair where he stands in 221B's doorway. The air smells stale and tangy with unwashed dishes and laundry and, even more telling, unwashed body; there's a sea of crumpled, wrinkly clothes and shoes and books sitting sadly in the middle of the floor. Sherlock's belongings, dejected._

_John sits braced against the far wall, partially obscured by the desk and chairs with his knees pressed to his chest and his arms locked tightly around them. He looks up at Greg with tired, lined eyes dulled by alcohol; his hair, longer and greyer than Greg recalls, sits up in feathered tufts on his head and a beard has started to fill out his significantly gaunter face. The copper has seen his fair share of those who are at the end of their ropes, and it is very very clear that John Watson is at the end of his._

_He's never witnessed John losing his temper but he's done so now, berating the copper for his tenaciousness and telling him to leave him alone, that Greg doesn't understand anything about the loss of Sherlock Holmes._

_It's been three months since Sherlock died jumping off the roof of St Barts._

_He takes a step farther into the room, trying his damnest to keep his own temper in check, but it's a chore; but maybe a bit of temper is what John needs. The doctor has been overwhelmed by a deluge of both well-wishers and nay-sayers in the backlash of Sherlock's suicide, and sadly the latter far outweigh the former. Greg runs the risk of even more repercussions to his position if his superiors catch wind of his visit here, but John's been silent for far too long, both electronically and physically, and he can't help but need to make sure that the doctor hasn't tried to... follow the detective. "Listen, mate, I can't say I understand what you're going through since- since That Day, but for God's sake pull your head out of your arse and look around you. You want to know what my last case was before all this happened, you want to know what sort of messed up shit I had to deal with?" John makes no verbal reply but his head has lifted an infinitesimal amount, and Greg takes that as permission to go on. "A three year old was found wrapped in a bag in a bin, strangled to death." He's pleased when he sees the doctor flinch at the inhumanity of such an act. "You want to know who did that? The toddler's seventeen year old mother, that's who, and she didn't care that she'd killed her own child. Her parents did, though. I had to leave the girl's mum and dad in tears, John, because of someone else's actions." He crosses his arms, merely feet away from the doctor now. "You aren't the only one who's lost someone, so don't disrespect the others who have."_

_There's a long, strained silence; for a long time Greg is certain that John hasn't actually heard a thing he's said, and he sighs with a shake of his head. He's nearly to the door again when he hears,_

_"I know."_

_John's voice is hoarse and husky with both drink and disuse; he's spoken so softly that Greg isn't entirely sure he's heard him correctly, but when he turns back he finds the doctor's gaze on his own. Bleary and shame-filled as it is there's something grounding there that is heartening to see, and the copper finds himself swallowing thickly several times before he can think about a reply._

_John beats him to it. "I know you're right. I'm not the only one who's... lost someone." He barks a sudden, harsh laugh, startlingly different from his usual infectious giggle, and he runs a shaking hand through his hair again. "Hell, Sherlock would be telling me to get off my arse and stop being so sentimental."_

_"Sounds like him, yeah." Heartened by this response but still wary, Greg slowly lays his back flush against the wall and slides down until he's seated beside John._

_John's mouth twitches at an attempt at a smile but that's as far as it goes. "He was a fucking hypocrite. He was crying, Greg-- on the phone..." He breathes sharply through his nose, his head hitting the wall behind him, and Greg realizes with an icy shock of what exactly it is John is finally talking about. "He tried to hide it but it was obvious, he just kept on trying to get me to tell everyone he was a fake, and the more he begged the more he cried." He runs his hand through his hair again and blinks up at the ceiling and Greg pretends not to notice how wet his eyes have become. "I had to watch it, Greg. The whole damn thing, the... noise... his body made." He shudders. "It's not the fall I have nightmares about. It's the crunch of his skull shattering against the cement."'_

In this moment, though, staring up at the steps of the flat John is merely grateful he hadn't been able to chase the copper off in those months after The Fall. Greg had listened to him patiently as he'd finally let out some of the trauma of that day, and he's prepared to listen now.

Not that John says much.

What is there to talk about? Sherlock shot him-- John can't remember it, and in all truthfulness he isn't sure he really wants to. He allows himself the weakness of needing Greg's help mounting the seventeen steps, but he has absolutely no desire to speak aloud of what's happened. The copper, for his part, seems to realize this and merely asks if John needs his pain medication after they've reached the landing. Mrs. Hudson watches them worriedly from the bottom before heading to her own flat to prepare a tray of tea.

"You sure you don't want some of this mess cleaned up, John?" Greg asks an hour later. He's got the doctor settled in his red threadbare armchair with Mrs. Hudson's tray resting beside him. He motions vaguely towards the general space of the flat and the remainders of the mess that Sherlock has made of it; the blood has been scrubbed away and the floorboards replaced, and whatever evidence the team needed is now collected. The clutter is still overwhelming, however, and Greg wonders again how the neater, military John has coped with it.

Tired and growing drowsy, John shakes his head. "Thanks, but no. It's all right. He never liked it all being organized-- he never could find anything if it was."

Greg has to bite his tongue against stating that whether Sherlock shows up or not, he will never again live in Baker Street. Instead, he nods and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. It's almost a relief when it nears his time to leave-- he's got a double shift tonight. John has fallen asleep in his chair and is snoring quietly with his cup of tea still cradled in his hands. Greg carefully extracts it to place it back on its tray before shrugging his coat on. "C'mon, mate," he murmurs softly, gently shaking John awake. "You shouldn't sleep sitting up." He supports the other as he leads him to the sofa, knowing that John won't climb the additional stairs to his own bed for a couple more days, and waits until he knows that the doctor is fully asleep again before taking his leave. Mrs. Hudson meets him at the landing. 

"You'll be alright watching him, then, Mrs. Hudson?"

She nods. "Of course, dear. Been watching over those boys for years now. Go on and try to solve a murder."

He sighs. "I'll stop by tomorrow after I've slept."

Mrs. Hudson watches him go with a worried frown and makes sure to securely lock the door after him; after pulling on the handle she nods to herself and quietly ascends the stairs to let herself into her lads' flat. Greg has left the light on over the sink to see by, casting the living room in an eerie inky darkness, and she tiptoes to the edge of the sofa to check on John. She clucks to herself when seeing the silly policeman hadn't even bothered to grab a blanket for the poor man and goes to the cupboard to pull out the old afghan that Sherlock loves so much. As she drapes it over him, John stirs.

"Wha' izzit?" he asks drowsily; a passing bus on the road outside reflects against one of the streetlamps and its reflection shimmers across the room, throwing half of his face in stark relief. His eyes look black as he blinks sleepily up at her.

"Don't worry yourself, John," she tells him softly, busying herself with the afghan. "Mind you get plenty of rest, now, dear, we mustn't give Sherlock cause to worry." She stops speaking abruptly, her sharp intake of breath loud in the silence.

John isn't a man prone to easily displaying affection but as Mrs. Hudson starts to pull away he reaches out a hand and grabs hold of her own. "It'll be all right," he finds himself saying to her.

"Oh, John, if I could have only a fraction of your optimism." She shakes her head. "What do we do now?"

He knows what she's asking, and he's helpless to do anything but shake his head-- she knows the answer anyway. "We wait."


	3. Chapter 3

"You'll be all right in a week if you keep up with the Amoxicillin. Last time you close your thumb in a door, yeah?" John closes the folder he has in his hands and grins over at the young girl seated across from him on the bed. Amelia is ten years old, bright-eyed and cheerful, and she giggles at the question, glancing rather guiltily over at her mother who is sitting in the other chair. She's the first patient he's come across who's been allergic to Augmentin, although he's heard of the rare case of such. The girl's neck is covered with a bright red rash that she continually attempts to and is admonished for scratching at-- which is what he hears her mother doing as they depart.

Amelia is his last patient for the day and it's with a sigh of relief that he heads out. It's flu season and so everyone is out trying to find a cure to their illness when all they can really do is monitor their food and fluid intake, take temperature often, and wait it out. 

Nevertheless, it is still John's favorite time of the year, this early Autumn-- Christmas may be the holiday he loves and looks forward to the most, but this early morning crispness and the changing leaves has always had its own charming beauty. It's still warm enough now he doesn't have to wear a jacket when he takes a cab home. 

The familiar figure of Greg Lestrade greets him when he climbs out-- dressed casually he sees, and without the long black windbreaker John now automatically seems to connect with any detective inspector now, and he remembers that tonight is Bar Night. He swears to himself at the overlook.

"Been awhile," Greg comments as they head into the flat. "What have you been up to, John?"

"Same as last time," he replies with a shrug. The stairs creak with their weight as they climb to 221B, and it's not quite a lie. The GP clinic he moved to shortly after The Fall straddles the rougher fringes of the neighborhood and he finds the remnants of the battlefield all too clearly there, and John has started to write down his days in a journal he hides in the flat to keep from wearying of the worst of the world. 

There's nothing else he can do. He doesn't want to be one of those people who can't live through another day, and he's already been there twice. He doesn't want there to be a third time.

He changes his clothes and pulls on his oatmeal colored sweater before they head out again; they don't go far, merely to the closest pub that serves both good beer and decent food. It's busy enough that they can talk without fear of being overheard, and Greg takes a long drink of his beer before he asks, 

"Anything from Sherlock's brother?" 

"Not a word." Why the inspector refuses to call Mycroft by his name is a mystery to John, but it still amuses him to remember Greg explaining his first meeting with the elder Holmes sibling. Clearly Mycroft harbors a secret for darkened warehouses-- but of course he's not so surprised now that he's more savvy in the brothers' dynamics. Mycroft is severely protective of Sherlock in his own way, so John's words are an out-and-out lie right now and he can only pray that Greg won't catch it.

The inspector, damn him, is too good at his job for that. "Really?"

John sighs. The chips he's ordered are quickly growing cold as they talk, and he finds he's really not all that hungry. The healed scar on his torso throbs once with remembered pain-- it's been several months since the shooting, and he busies himself to keep away from the too-still flat. 

He still can't recall anything of that actual moment when Sherlock turned the gun towards him. 

"He still hasn't found him," John allows carefully. "There hasn't been any sign of him where Mycroft has looked."

That isn't so surprising. Sherlock Holmes, after all, is a master of disguise. Life decides to be fair to him tonight, though, because Greg decides to leave well enough alone and instead turns talk to one of his latest recruits at the station who turns out to be a bit of a prankster.

"By all appearances she seems to be the picture of innocence, and then you'll turn around and she's put a rubber mouse hidden in the papers of one of my DCs who's terrified of mice. She put salt instead of sugar in one of the shakers so on that occasion you had to run a fifty fifty chance of getting the right one." Greg grins and finishes his beer as he orders another. " I really should stop her but it's too interesting to me to see what she's going to think of next."

John laughs long and hard at that, amused at the thought of the small chaos that such pranks would create. They sit at the pub until final call and then head out, both a bit unsteady on their feet as they go on their way. Greg hails a taxi as they approach the flat, his smile a mite loose as he bids John goodnight and an assurance that their next Bar Night will be in a few weeks.

John watches him go and then turns back to the door of the flat. Mrs. Hudson is still up if the light in her own kitchen is anything to go by, but he doesn't stop in. He's ready for a cup of tea and to read a couple chapters of his book before heading to bed himself, and he doesn't want to disturb her if she happens to be asleep. She worries, even if she says nothing about it. He heads up the seventeen steps and opens the door into the flat-- and as he makes his way farther into the room, a sense of unease flares up his back. _'You see but you do not observe,'_ Sherlock tells him frequently, and right now he can completely agree.

Later he blames the alcohol in his system for the extra time he takes to realize that something is very wrong, and by then it's too late. He's seven steps into the room before it comes to him.

_I hadn't closed the door when I left._

The instincts that had helped him survive as a soldier alerts him to the sudden shift of space over his left shoulder. He both ducks and pivots--

And isn't quite fast enough. A blunt object clips him above the ear with enough force to make him stagger. His vision flashes with stars at the pain and he loses a precious second trying to keep his knees from buckling, and a tall shadow falls over him and this time he's hit squarely over the head.

He hits the floor unconscious before he can register the pain.

~/~/~/~/~

When he comes to, he's face down in the gritty oak floorboards of 221B near the kitchen. His wrists and ankles have been zip-tied together and a foul-tasting towel has been stuffed into his mouth as a gag. His head throbs where he had been struck and the tacky sensation of half-dried blood has trickled around his ear and down his neck.  
"And they tell me you were an army doctor."

The accent grates on John's ears and he shifts to find the man that Sherlock has been looking for is directly behind him, looking down at him with dark, critical eyes.

"You were laughably easy to detain, Doctor Watson. Playing domestic with Sherlock Holmes has softened your edges, I think. And what good is a dull knife to anyone?"

Ivan Volkov is Russian, fifty-four years of age, and a crime lord in his own right in the Mother Land; two years ago, amidst Sherlock's dismantling Moriarty's network the consulting detective had happened to stumble across the outer fringes of Volkov's own network tangled with Moriarty's. In an ensuing fight, several of the Russian's men were killed. Sherlock had had to pull out of the country to avoid Volkov's reach and he'd had no choice but to come back to England to regroup and seek safety until they could think of a way to handle the mess.

John really wishes both the Holmes brothers would have been mistaken in their thoughts of what Volkov would do, but of course he's never been that lucky. He glares up at the man in question, wishing that the gag would be gone-- what he wants to say will probably get him killed, though, and that's not part of the plan, so maybe it's a blessing in disguise after all. He braces himself on the floor and pushes himself up into a sitting position and tries to ignore the pull of the fresh scar on his torso again.

Volkov crouches in front of him; he's a tall man, powerfully built and physically imposing. Whatever information Mycroft found on the man points him as a former KGB with ties to some of the dealings of the Cold War in the 80s before the USSR collapsed, more than able to fight his own battles and with no hesitation when it comes to his kills. John knows that if it comes down to a fight he'll hold out only so long before he is overpowered.

He's the leverage. With his voice effectively cut off he vocalizes his irritation by thumping the heels of his shoes against the floor-- once, twice, three times. Volkov responds by kneeling on the top of his feet, leaning all of his weight in pinning John to the floor. The overtaxed muscles in John's legs immediately flare with pain as they're strained and he automatically bends his knees to relieve them. The movement brings him uncomfortably closer to the Russian's reach.

"None of that, Doctor Watson." His accent is strong but he's still understandable. He's different than Moriarty in every way-- not least his perchance to dirty his own hands, and most worrying of all John sees no sign of weapons on his person. Bit not good, he thinks. Then Volkov smiles a strange little smile and the doctor's spine shudders with sudden dread. "You are a dull knife hardly able to cut into your enemies, but I have ways of fixing this. Trained properly, you could become a rather valuable asset in my hunt for Sherlock Holmes."

Shit. This definitely isn't part of the plan; he tries to scoot backwards to free his feet but with no leverage it's a futile gesture; the Russian has no trouble grabbing hold of him to stop his movement, and this time one of his large hands grabs at John's throat and squeezes just so. He chokes out a curse through the gag.

"I was surprised when I heard that Holmes had shot you, Doctor. It is not hard to look into his life and find you, his faithful companion-- your blog is rather entertaining, yes? But all of that is different now-- the brilliant detective has turned as a rabid dog and bitten the hand that pets it. It would not take much to convince you to go after Sherlock Holmes yourself once you are trained."

The dread in his gut rottens to something rank as he realizes the Russian's plan. He forces down his hatred and anger, though, and allows himself only the tamest of reactions-- he flips Volkov the bird.

He half-expects the Russian to snap his finger for his bravado, but Volkov only grins again. "It will be fun breaking you, Doctor Watson."

He can't be taken through that door. As soon as he's on the street, he's lost. His heart is pounding and the classic fight or flight response makes the muscles of his back and arms tense in preparation. With an effort he forces himself to be still and stay pliant, soft-- it's clear that the Russian expects a stand of initial resistance, but he's not expecting much, and John is more than happy to have Volkov believe that of him for now.

The zip ties binding his ankles together makes it hellishly awkward-- there will be no running, not yet anyway-- and he has to wait until the other man is grabbing hold of him to haul him up. His clothes smell of fresh air and pine, the rich gritty smell of earth prevalent even through the laundered scent of his suit, and John idly wonders if this Russian mob boss is an avid hunter.

When he is nearly upright, the weight settling unsteadily between his feet, John makes his move. Volkov's head is partially bent, his greater height forcing himself to slump just a little, and balling his fists together John strikes his captor across the temple.

Volkov staggers-- it isn't enough to hurt him badly but it does disorient him. With a sound similar to a lion's growl he slips and very nearly falls, but he doesn't let go of his prisoner. John, for his part, doesn't aim for his head again or his chest, doesn't even use his hands-- he brings his feet up and swings an ankle around the man's left leg and trips him up.

They fall together, the Russian rather more startled than the doctor, and John is already moving even as he lands on the hardwood floor. His hip and ribs shout with pain and his ankle throbs from where he's pulled it; gritting his teeth around the gag he pushes through the pain and he rolls until his back hits the outer leg of the desk. As Volkov stirs he reaches up to a drawer and grabs hold of the knife that Sherlock had left there, careful as he cuts through the plastic around his ankles. The Russian picks himself up from the floor with a furious sound and his dark eyes promise pain, but John has met James Moriarty and he's not so easily rattled by other egomaniacs-- he squares his shoulders and feints to one side, careful to keep an arm's length between them and the knife held securely in his grip. 

There is new appreciation in the Russian's expression as he looks down at the diminutive army doctor, but it's not there for long-- he's closest to the door, his back to the stairs to prevent escape, and therefore misses the soft footsteps that pad their way up. John catches a glimpse of a thin wrist clutching a heavy cast iron skillet before it swings down, hitting Volkov in the upper shoulder with rather more force than he'd first thought possible. John winces despite himself when he hears a sharp crack and the Russian shouts in pain and anger as he swings on his heel to face this latest threat--

And the skillet swings up again to solidly hits him in the face. Volkov slips, rights himself for a moment, and then he sways like a tree in a high wind as his mouth drips blood. Finally, he topples. 

"John!" Mrs. Hudson hurries forward, stepping over the unconscious Russian as she makes her way to help the doctor. The skillet is still held firmly in her hand and John raises his eyebrows at it significantly before she realizes. "Oh! Sorry, dear." She drops it on the desk behind him where it lands with a heavy thump and reaches up to undue the gag.   
He coughs before he speaks, trying to moisten his throat again. "A skillet? Really?"

"I'll have you know that a skillet works quite well as a deterrent, John Watson!" Mrs. Hudson scolds him, grabbing the knife from him to cut through the binds on his wrists. "Set upon my husband once with it when he tried to beat me, and I can tell you he never did it again. Go and sit down, dear, before you fall. You look concussed."

"I was hit over the head," he grumbles good-naturedly, rubbing at his wrists. "We have to wait for--"

"Backup?" comes the drawl from the doorway. "I told you to wait for me, Mrs. Hudson, rather than involve yourself in this."

"You took too long to get here, Sherlock," she tells him firmly. "You told me you would take no more than three minutes to get here and yet you still weren't here after five."

"There were-- obstacles," Sherlock says unhappily. "I took me two minutes and twenty-three seconds longer to get here than I had originally supposed. Forgive me, John, but I must say you rather choose a bad night to drink."

"How--? No, never mind. Just call your brother and let him know we've got Volkov now." John glares for a second at Sherlock, because of course the detective is right. 

"He's already on his way," Sherlock assures him quietly, and then he pauses for a long second and his mouth pulls with something very similar to guilt. "John, I- I am sorry for what I did--"

"We're going to have to work on your aim," John tells him darkly. "I remember telling you to aim for the lower shoulder." He expects the slight flinch that flashes across Sherlock's face at the admonishment but once he sees that he walks forward and draws the detective into a hug. They both need it, and very quickly Sherlock's stiff posture melts and his arms come up and wrap themselves tightly around his blogger. "I think you were three days off on your plan, you know. You told me Volkov wouldn't come until Saturday evening."

"What the _bloody hell_ \--" 

Lestrade's angry exclamation draws them apart and they find the inspector standing gobsmacked in the doorway. It makes for a thoroughly baffling image, and he's walked into several here throughout the years; an unconscious man on the floor, Mrs. Hudson in her nightie, a skillet sitting on the desk, and of course Sherlock Holmes standing bold as brass in the middle of it all.

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock says without preamble. "Wonderful timing as always, but you should go ahead and get back in your cab and head back to your flat. We have things well under control here."

"Well under con--! Sherlock, you bastard, I ought to punch you right now, you know that? After what you did to John, I'm going to have to arrest you and you'll find I'll actually enjoy it now, too!"

"You won't, Greg," John says quietly from behind the detective. Sherlock looks completely unruffled at Lestrade's shouting and merely wanders to the desk to look at the skillet with interest. "I'm not pressing charges. Please, I know you're going to be furious with us both after this but it was all part of the plan."

"Plan?" Now Lestrade's voice has dropped to a dangerous level, and his face is flushed with rage as he looks between Sherlock and John. "And _what_ , exactly, was _that_?"

"A convoluted one," John says shortly. "Let's get the mad scary Russian on the floor tied up before he wakes up, and I'm going to take care of the spot where the bastard hit me." That said, he makes his way down the hallway to the bathroom as Lestrade gapes after him, unable to formulate a response that will make sense. Sherlock takes off his coat and bends to click a pair of handcuffs around the Russian's wrists as Mrs. Hudson wanders to the kitchen to make a pot of tea ('just this once, Sherlock; not your housekeeper!'); everything is orderly and quiet again when Mycroft shows up with his team, and Lestrade feels side-swiped as he witnesses it all. 

Crazy. The lot of them here in Baker Street are completely batty, and Lestrade doesn't turn down the cup of tea when it's offered. He wishes for another pint of beer, though.

He's going to need it, to hear this.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, let me get this straight." Lestrade's voice is low and furious as either Sherlock or John has heard it before; the copper scrubs a hand convulsively down his face before he looks at them both. "Sherlock, you were attempting to tie up loose ends with a Russian mob boss, so you decided that the best way to do that was by shooting your best friend and flatmate and going _on the run_."

The multiple stresses of individual words makes John shift in his seat uncomfortably, but of course he knows he deserves this dressing down as much as Sherlock. "Actually," he says quietly, "I think that that was my idea. The, ah, shooting part, anyway."

"Your idea." Lestrade's voice has gone flat and icy, and then he goes white and then red in quick succession; his palms slap against the table as he slides his chair away from it. "Christ, John, he nearly _killed_ you! I'm calling in a doctor-- you need a psyche eval."

"Neither John nor I will subject ourselves to a medical evaluation today, Lestrade, because there is absolutely no need to. Volkov is a powerful figure in the black market himself, and although he is no Moriarty he still posed a significant threat. I attested that the best way of flushing him out into the open was to appear to suffer a breakdown and harm someone close to me. John--" here he pauses for just a moment and he glances over at his friend, "convinced me that the best course of action would be to actually harm him. That way, it would be indisputable that I had raised my hand to him; if Volkov were to search his person and find no trace of a fresh scar then he would likely realize he was being played."

"A clever front," John adds quietly, looking down at his hands. "Like the one Sherlock pulled at-- at St. Bart's."

"Very clever," Lestrade bites out as he stands up. "Make sure you congratulate each other on a job well done, because you won't be hearing one from me. Now, I'm leaving to process your man-- and if I see either of you still here when I'm done then I will arrest you both anyway. And I will include psyche evaluations while you're in a cell!"

Sherlock's mouth opens to protest Lestrade's threat, but he sees John shake his head in warning and desists before he utters a word. He silently watches how slowly his blogger still walks, how gingerly he twists his body, and something sickly starts to itch in Sherlock's stomach. It takes him until they've nearly reached the doors to recognize it as guilt. "You think," he says abruptly as they leave and climb into the black car that Mycroft has provided them. John pauses for a moment, glances at him, but he stays quiet and it's up to Sherlock to fill the silence of his statement. "You told Lestrade 'you think' just now instead of simply stating that it you did insist on it. Quite vocally, I might add." He waits again for confirmation but John, damn him, continues to stare out the window and doesn't say a word. "You can't remember it. Being... shot."

The door shuts with rather more force than is needed. John waits until the driver has pulled into the lane of traffic before he says anything. "Yeah."

~/~/~/~/~

"There is nothing that can be accomplished by your worrying, brother mine," Mycroft comments impatiently. It's late night at the Diogenes Club and he wants to head home before it's early morning; but what with Sherlock pacing up and down the carpet floor he finds it difficult to do what he wants. "Either John will remember the shooting, or he won't, and there is precious little that you can do in the meantime--"

"But it's trauma, Mycroft! And this time it won't be as simple to combat as a psychosomatic limp or an intermittent tremor-- he has his memories of Afghanistan. How am I supposed to combat memories of an event he can't recall?"

There's an edge of frantic worry there in his tone that Mycroft hasn't heard since their dog Redbeard threw up blood. For just a moment he wonders again why Sherlock insists on being so sentimental as having personal relationships as they only ever seem to bring him heartache and worry, and then he says, "I suggest you start researching the ways you can combat episodes of post traumatic stress disorder-- the kind that can't be remedied by dashing after a mad genius all across London, of course."

Sherlock bares his teeth at him. "Very clever, Mycroft."

"A fact that I believe we have already established, Sherlock." When the worry and anger in Sherlock's expression only deepens, however, he sighs. "There is a possibility that John will suffer no repercussions of your shooting him, you know. A slim chance, mind you, but still a chance. Watch him carefully, study him as you have always done, and plan for what you will do if he does slide back into his PTSD. That is all you can do for now."

He hopes for both Sherlock's and John's sake that that slim chance will be the one that comes out on top. He's been secretly impressed with the army doctor since that first warehouse meeting, and though it is only to himself that he'll admit it to, he only grows more impressed with him the longer John stays by Sherlock's side.

It takes a very special person to stay so long by his younger brother's side and much less enjoy it; and John has never turned his back on Sherlock. It was through both the brothers' actions that John was initially able to find an outlet for his loss of battlefield, but now even Mycroft can't rightly say how to handle the implications that if John's PTSD does indeed rear its head again it will likely be pointed at Sherlock himself.  
~/~/~/~/~

Volkov ends up indictted not too long after his capture. He is not an ambassador and nor is he of any prevalent family, so they don't have to worry about diplomatic immunity. It will be hard for the Mother Country to stand behind him after evidence of his numerous dealings with crime and the black market comes to light, of course, and it's then that Lestrade finally understands the other half of Sherlock's and John's crazy plan. 

"I understand Sherlock's need to find evidence to convict Volkov," he says to John a mite desperately, "but did you really have to almost bleed out to allow him to do that?" It's just the two of them in the flat at the moment and John is currently puttering around the kitchen preparing a rare home-cooked meal. It's growing steadily colder and it's been wet and overcast all day-- the way he moves his shoulder tells the inspector the old Afghan wound is hurting him today.

It's also made him a little more short-tempered if his reply is anything to go by. "My decision, Greg, remember? I've already told you that he hadn't meant to shoot me there. His hand had to have shaken."

He's not going to bother asking how John could possibly know that if he doesn't recall it, because the doctor's I'm-Surrounded-By-Idiots Look is nearly as devastating as Sherlock's. Instead he sits tensely at the table for a long moment, struggling to find what he wants to say as John continues to move about. "But why did you keep it a secret from me, John?" he finally asks, and this time his desperation shines through. "We were all worried for you after you came home from the hospital, but I wasn't sure how you'd..." He wants to finish the sentence but can't.

And now John's shoulders slump as he lights a fire underneath the pan on the stove. This is the first time in several weeks since Sherlock's return that Lestrade has decided to even contact either of them. "I know," he admits softly. "And I'm sorry, Greg, I really am. I fought with Sherlock for days over it, but he told me I wouldn't be allowed to help him this time if I told anyone else. And after St. Barts..."

"You realize this is _exactly_ like St Barts?" Greg demands, sitting forward and suddenly furious. 

John stills, his head tilting. "Stop it."

"You played us all as much as he did while he pretended to be dead--"

"I know, Greg--" One hand is clenching and unclenching against the counter top as he bends down to grab another pot. Greg doesn't see it.

"--even after you fell apart after the Fall you still kept mum about your plan and allowed us to think you could slide back towards suicidal--"

" _Shut up_!"

John's shout is accompanied by the slamming of pots as he slams a drawer shut. For a moment it looks like he's going to pivot on his heel and rip Lestrade a new one, but then his leg buckles and he staggers where he stands; his fingers scrabble for the edge of the counter before he can fall. Lestrade leaps from his chair to catch the doctor before he can lose his purchase and he notices how pained and suddenly bloodless John's face is as he helps him to the floor. "Whoa, who, easy," he murmurs like he would to a spooked horse, all of his anger gone, "take it easy, mate, I'm sorry. Just breathe..."

This is more than simple pain brought on by the weather. There's a distance there suddenly in John's gaze that is frightening and his breath is hitching sharply in his chest. He's too pale. Panic attack, something in Lestrade's mind says decisively and he wants to smack himself for his lapse in judgment. Instead, he settles for swearing under his breath and swiping a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the tap. By that time John has managed to gain some semblance of control over his breathing but there is still a fine trembling in his left hand that worries the inspector. "You with me, mate?" he asks gently, and waits for John to nod.

"Yeah," the doctor breathes slowly. "Yeah..." He accepts the cup and forces himself to sip it.

Lestrade tries not to crowd him overtly, knowing how much John hates being smothered, and so he braces himself and slides down to the floor to lean against one of the kitchen chairs. "Sorry," he mumbles again.

"Stop saying that," John snaps-- too soon, clearly, because it causes his breathing to spike again and they spend another five minutes in relative silence as he works to calm himself down. 

"How long has this been going on for, then?" Lestrade asks.

John has the good sense not to play dumb. "Once before, since the shooting," he admits softly, staring studiously at the half-drunk cup of water. "But I've had them off and on since Afghanistan."

Lestrade stares, taken aback by the admission. "I didn't know."

And John barks a harsh laugh. "How could you? It's not something I advertised, you know... and they were pretty rare after I met Sherlock."

The hesitancy in his voice as he mutters Sherlock's name makes Lestrade's mouth thin; for God's sake, he should have guessed that John would suffer from being shot by his best friend, but of course the doctor had stayed by Sherlock's side without any appearance of trouble after his return and so the inspector had believed he was fine. He wonders for a moment how John has kept such facts from everyone for so long, and he shudders to himself realizing that they must have been frequent following The Fall.

"You need to speak to someone about this, John," he says gently but firmly. "You've just told me you've dealt with this stuff for almost over three years-- and this time I don't think helping Sherlock with cases is going to be the magic fix-it that it was before." He takes a deep breath, knowing his offer is likely to be rebuffed before it's fully out of his mouth. "And I think you should get out of 221B for awhile, just until you can--"

"No."

"John--"

" _No_ , Greg."

Stubborn fool. Lestrade spreads his hands helplessly, irritated again by the doctor's steadfastness in the circumstance. "What are you going to do, then, huh? Continue to have panic attacks until things come to a head? Sherlock's going to catch on eventually."

"He hasn't yet." John shakes his head and cuts Lestrade off as the inspector opens his mouth to protest. "I can't, Greg. Sherlock doesn't need the guilt of thinking it's because of him."

"It _is_ because of him--"

" _My_ decision. He didn't want to do it. I made him. Don't you dare tell him otherwise, because you'll be wrong. But I'm not leaving him now, not after we nearly lost him. I can handle it."

Lestrade nods reluctantly, conceding defeat, but he wonders who John is really trying to convince: the inspector, or himself?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize now if this last chapter reads a bit disjointedly. I had a majority written months ago, but a month ago my grandpa passed away unexpectedly, and I was too numb to pick up a pencil or write or do much of anything other than go to work and read and sleep. My subsequent attempts to write anything at all besides his obituary has been rough and slow-going, so if the beginning of this chapter especially reads a bit jarringly or with less emotion behind it then that's my reason. 
> 
> Second, I am in no way an expert about how to handle PTSD, or how other people handle panic attacks. All I really have to go on for the latter is my own experiences, so I apologize now if any of it seems... not quite right.

Something is off about John.

It's obvious, of course, this fact. Sherlock is not the world's only consulting detective in the world for nothing and he's been hyper aware about John since his return from hunting down Moriarty's web. Does he miss the thrill of the chase hunting down the consulting criminal's men? He'd be lying if he says not. His two years away pushed him to his absolute limits of both mental and physical limits and the challenge had grown the longer he was away, but the fact remains that he'd missed London. Missed Baker Street.

Missed _John_.

There are two singular moments of Sherlock's life that have truly frightened him that he can remember. (He has a hazy recollection of a drug overdose and Mycroft's uncharacteristically frightened expression that in turn terrified him, but that is neither here nor there.) The first was atop the roof of St. Barts's and he'd realized that Moriarty had effectively won by his deception of the key code.

The second is when he pointed a loaded pistol at John and pulled the trigger. It's different when it's his own life that he's gambling with-- it's another matter entirely when it's his friend's. It's different because he can recall the panic that welled up when the deed was done and he'd wished desperately, _childishly_ , that he could take it back.

Knowing that it could very well be his own hands that killed John Watson in the end. 

He blames this odd feeling of guilt that he's willfully ignored the signs that his flatmate and friend is struggling.

For nearly six months everything is fine-- John has suffered no repercussions from Sherlock's actions, and the detective has been uncharacteristically eager to hope. But now there is no mistaking the signs of what will inevitably happen, and he has no way of helping because John won't let him. His nightmares have returned with no warning, which Sherlock only knows about because he observes the signs of sleep deprivation dug into the lines of John's face and the paleness of his skin in the mornings as he makes their cups of tea; he no longer comes down the stairs in the middle of the night after he's woken up. These nightmares don't make John scream or cry out like the ones about Afghanistan sometimes do, but Sherlock can hear him pacing when the floorboards above his head creak with his passing weight.

These moments occur only once or twice a month and John doesn't recall what they're about, but neither of them has to guess.

Sometimes those who experience traumatic events never recall the events that actually traumatized them to begin with, and Sherlock has begun to suspect that it will likely be that way for John. In between the trial of Volkov, the police's own quiet investigation into why Sherlock himself would turn a loaded weapon on his friend, and the occasional case that Lestrade starts bringing him (he suspects John's hand in the latter), he spends his time relearning what various forms of PTSD materializes as and what can be done for each.

He hates it. It's admitting that this time, with trauma he can't solve by way of running through the back alleys and rooftops of London, he really doesn't know what to do.

As the weeks go by he sees the tension building beneath John's skin, vibrating along the curve of his shoulders and the ramrod line of his spine, and bitterly curses the moment he'd ever turned a gun John's way. Even if it was at John's own insistence. 'Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?' Wasn't that what one of the old science fiction films had a character say once? He'd thought the entire premise of the story outlandish and contrived (' _Love redeems_? Really, John, one couldn't be any more childish with such fantastical drivel--' Answering laughter. 'They're _classics_ , Sherlock!'). Now he finds the quote remarkably apt even if it had been spoken by a space wizard too stupid to make it halfway through the film alive.

All jokes aside, Sherlock can't help but watch and wait and wonder when something is going to give. He feels an odd sense of floundering-- always before it's been someone else take care of him, but now he feels a need to be the one responsible to John. 

This, he realizes with a sense of dawning horror, is what it means to be a responsible adult.

So he tries to keep up a pretense of normalcy around the flat, following John's lead as he always does in the cases of human interaction; the dreams and nightmares continue, however, and John starts to volunteer for more shifts at his job. The limp shows up at odd intervals and when Sherlock knows that when Lestrade is anywhere near the doctor, his dark eyes follow him worriedly.

John has snuck off to Ella's three times since the shooting; he refuses to allow Sherlock to acknowledge that he knows this.

And then finally there's the day it all comes to a head. Sherlock comes through the main door after finishing up a case (alone, as he has done for the past few) and startles John where he sits. Actually makes him jump when he comes near him, like a spooked cat does with a human who has kicked it. It's such an innocent moment but it proves unforgivable. 

~/~/~/~/~

No. _No no no no no no_.

This isn't supposed to be happening. Volkov is taken care of; there's never been anything to fear about Sherlock Holmes. So why is John feeling so bloody _jumpy_ all the time? He's been relatively fine in Sherlock's presence for months-- nightmares notwithstanding-- and then he'd woken up one day with a switch flipped in his head telling him that the detective is a danger.

Logically he knows it's complete bollocks. What he doesn't find so easy to convince is his subconscious.

He goes to Ella, desperate to understand what's happening. He's a doctor of the body, patching up and helping to heal the physical hurts; he'd had to take a few psychology classes, of course, but there's a reason why he's never pursued this field of work.

Sherlock would be able to help him, but of course his messed-up head is telling him that the detective is the problem.

Ella tells him he what he needs is distance. Distance away from the flat where he had been shot, distance from the flatmate who shot him. He never confesses to her that it was his idea, his insistence, that Sherlock shoot him; she means well but she's never truly understood how he works, nor how he works with the detective.

'Simply because you already display symptoms of a traumatic event, John,' she had told him in her usual calm way, 'doesn't mean that you can't struggle with other manifestations of others. It's common.'

But there's nothing common about this situation. John himself is as common as they come (or so he has convinced himself-- Sherlock would protest otherwise), but the life they live is so far outside the realm of normal there are still days he's convinced he's made it all up.

Mostly he's just afraid of losing Sherlock. But of course he doesn't know how to say it aloud and so he pushes aside his doubts and pretends that everything is fine. When there are moments he feels overwhelmed or the panic hits he does what he's always done-- he retreats to somewhere quiet and shakes his way through them.

But today... today something snaps. He climbs to his feet as smoothly as he can and tries to act normally as always as Sherlock breezes through the flat. His heart is flying in his chest and he really really hopes that the detective has turned the corner in to the kitchen before he notices John's flinch at the sound of his voice. 

He makes his way down the hallway to the bathroom where he closes the door quietly behind him and then turns on the shower. Seconds after he does so his leg decides to buckle, and he finds himself catching the edge of the sink to prevent falling to the floor. He steadies and then slides down the length of the cabinet to the floor, trying to steady his breathing and trying to understand why the human brain is so strange. Otherwise it wouldn’t be telling him Sherlock means him harm.

John knows better. He knows it better than the skin he lives in, better than his own judgment. A self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock may claim himself to be, but his actions prove otherwise—at least with his friends. John’s followed him into any number of ludicrous, impossible situations where one or both of them should have ended up dead but that was all his own choice.

So was Sherlock’s shooting him, but the reminder doesn’t help this time.

He recognizes the shaking in his hands and the tightness in his chest as a panic attack, just like all of the others. Most of the time he can breathe through them, cope with the dread crawling up his spine and climb to his feet and carry on because what else is there to do? But now he can’t do anything but sit with his knees pressed to his chest and his fingers clenched tightly together to stop their shaking, trying to take a breath that will actually calm him.

No good. His chest is tightening and his vision is tunneling and he leans his head back against the wall and resists the urge to bash his head against it. The trembling in his left hand worsens as he clenches it brutally between his knees and squeezes it until he’s certain that his fingers are cracking but it does absolutely nothing to alleviate the panic.

He can't. _Fucking. Breathe._

The steam of the shower is fogging up the mirror and starting to make his skin wet with condensation. It's been too long-- Sherlock will be curious as to his reaction if he hasn't deduced it already and he'll be knocking at the door any minute now. John doesn't know what he'll do when that happens; whether he'll scream, or cry, or finally smash his head open on the wall, or worse attack the detective. Flight or fight, and he's never been one for flight.

“John?”

There it is, right on cue. He giggles to himself at the timing and then with a strangled gasp he balls his hand into a fist and brutally shoves it into his mouth. Can't afford to make noise or the enemy will hear.

“John, the water has been running roughly two minutes and thirty-nine seconds longer than your four minute and fifty-seven second showers and there is no smell of soap or shampoo wafting through the door.”

Damn it. The skin on John’s knuckles splits as he bites down even harder to stop the mad laughter from bubbling up. _Wafting_. Who the hell uses words like _wafting_ anymore? His man-shaped dictionary flatmate, that's who. The smell of copper pervades his nose and the taste of it floods his mouth as his teeth worry and catch at the broken skin and again he is hit with the sickening hazy image of looking down in his feverish dreams and seeing himself in the sands bleeding out and unable to do a damned thing about it.

“John, you have five seconds to open this door before I come in.”

He's paralyzed, unable to draw even enough breath to tell Sherlock to leave him alone, and then the door is being wrenched at and the handle jiggles and then it’s being flung open.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, John, locking the door on me? You already know I can pick this lock in five seconds—” The detective’s words cut off abruptly as he enters the bathroom. His blue silk dressing gown hangs off one gaunt shoulder and his dark curls are in half-hazard disarray like they usually are when he's run his fingers through them in a fit of irritation, and his pale grey eyes widen as they take in the sight before them. “…Oh.”

The very obvious way he says this breaks Johns tremulous control; a sharp giggle escapes his hold around his hand and once they start they can't stop. He's breathless and it's painful-- his sides ache with the force of them-- and Sherlock’s expression twitches towards fear and settles into something approaching panic. 

“John—”

_“Don't touch me!”_

The shout borders on panicked as John flinches back from Sherlock’s tall frame, pressing himself even harder against the tiled wall as if he can sink into it. Blood drips down his hand and stains his lips, horrific red bleeding against the sickly white of his skin, and Sherlock freezes. This trembling, terrified mess is nothing he's familiar with, and all the deductions in the world can't help right now because _John doesn't trust him_. 

And for once, Sherlock has no idea what to do. 

Well, that simply will not do. He is Sherlock bloody Holmes, for God's sake—he’s the cleverest man of his age, and if he can't help his blogger and best friend he'll know the reason why not. He studies the room, with its simple walls and small spaces and the shower which is still running (cleverly covering up any sounds John may let escape so Sherlock won’t hear them); the first thing he does is slowly, carefully, edge into the room and reaches with one long arm to turn the water off. All the while John watches him like a hare caught in a corner before the dogs, and it twists Sherlock’s stomach to see it aimed his way. 

_Too tall_. The realization comes far too late for someone of Sherlock’s brilliance; his research tells him that right now the best thing for anyone having a panic attack is to allow them space and try to distract them from what they are feeling. He idly wishes that John’s breakdown had happened in the kitchen or the main room instead of such a small room and sits slowly on his haunches. Despite his keeping a few feet between them it still causes the doctor to freeze again.

Too pale, Sherlock thinks. Respiration increased exponentially, both hands trembling slightly. Pupils dilated. He’s pressed up against the wall like he’s adhered there, and Sherlock lowers himself to his knees. “Is this too close, John?”

Sherlock is brushing against the opposite wall and waits for his friend to respond. He’s witnessed the odd panic attack from strangers while solving his cases, but he’s never been in a front row seat before as it were. He can see by the way John’s breath hitches at the question that he probably is too close but he’s loathe to move outside.

“Don’t want it to be,” John finally chokes out, clenching his fingers between his knees again. Blood smears his trousers from his split knuckles. They sit in silence for a very long time, with only the doctor’s harsh breathing between them, until finally he speaks again, shakily but present, “I keep on seeing myself in Afghanistan again, only this time it’s myself I’m working on, trying to save, and there’s blood everywhere… “

“John—”

“Shut it,” he snaps, with just enough of his usual fire to not entirely frighten Sherlock. “Just—let me get this out, yeah? I don’t bloody remember anything that happened the night I told you to shoot me, but that stupid nightmare is the thing that’s dogged me. I have others, I think, but it’s that one that won’t let me go.” He takes another long deep breath which almost sets him off again. “After you… fell, I wouldn’t sleep because all I saw was your blood splattered all over the cement. Hear the sound of your skull impacting. And you want to know what I feel the worst about, Sherlock? Sometimes I’m happy that you know how it feels to be so terrified and helpless when it comes to your best mate dying.” His voice is harsh, gravelly. “I flatlined on the table three times. They had me on a ventilator for another week, Sherlock.”

“I know. I was there.”

His admission causes John to freeze for a moment; and then he actually starts to laugh as he hides his face in his hands, rough and painful giggles that signify more exasperation and pain than actual humor. “Of course you were, you bloody bastard—”

“John.” Sherlock's voice is surprisingly soft, and he is heartened to find that his friend doesn't flinch away from him this time. “Is it okay if I come a little closer?” Control-- that is what John needs; he needs the control in this circumstance. He wills himself to be patient and follow his doctor’s lead until the situation is resolved. His heart lifts a little more when, after a long tense moment, John nods his head in permission and he carefully slides forward a couple of inches until his knees are brushing John’s feet. “John, listen to me? Seeing you bleeding out on the floor from one of my own bullets was the single most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my rather extraordinary and at times terrifying life; don't you dare think yourself weak or otherwise likewise because of this. I’ve punished myself quite extensively for shooting you, more so than I believe you can imagine. But did you realize, John, that I came and visited you in the hospital and while I was there you wouldn't let go of my hand? You were strong enough even then, trying to tell me even then that it was okay. And that is why I believe that even now, it will be okay one day.”

“How can you say that—?”

“It was your left hand.” The shaking stops; John's frozen as he listens. 

“And?”

Sherlock allows himself to smile. “And it _wasn't trembling_.”

Interesting what words are capable of; Sherlock has observed their impact as experiments when bored and for manipulation when he needs it. Strong words said angrily can cause tears or answering anger, soft words can soothe as well as break depending on the tone. Inflections are also incredibly interesting, if frustrating as well in a social setting. It seems that the average boring brain fixates on the stressing of particular words as much as and if not more than the tone that they’re said with. 

John responds best to a soft tone. Of course, the doctor always has a reply to Sherlock be it a frustrated eye roll, a glare of irritation, or a wide smile when Sherlock has pleased him. He's a soldier; he responds to Sherlock’s loud words with equal sound and frequently is entirely unfazed by the detective’s anger. No, if Sherlock truly wants to make a successful point when it comes to John Watson he speaks softly. The doctor is so used to noise when it comes to living at 221B, he has no guard against gentle or soft. 

John freezes when he realizes what Sherlock has just told him; his hands are dropped from his face and his tired eyes are wide. “What?”

Gentle tone. Keep it light; a tease. “Come now, John, you must like hearing the sound of my voice the way you make me repeat myself.”

“But… I--…” John's attention flits to his hands, hardly able to process what he is just been told. He’s dimly aware of Sherlock scooting forward a couple more inches and only a sharp intake of breath escapes him as one of his friend’s hands lifts up.

“May I lay my hand on your shoulder?”

His nerves have somewhat calmed, and the panic that was squeezing his chest so painfully is gone. He nods jerkily, and the weight of Sherlock's fingers is surprisingly warm and comforting as he forces himself not to tense.

“Listen to me: I will sooner cut off my own hand then raise a weapon to you again.”

The doctor manages a wan, if strained, smile. “Even if I tell you to?”

“Even then. Please believe me--I didn't want to cause you so much pain. I will keep on telling you this until you believe me.”

“I do,” John whispers, his head falling back against the wall, “trust you, that is. Most of me does, anyway. It's just going to take the rest of me a while to… catch up, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, their knees brushing and Sherlock’s hand still gently holding the sturdy curve of John's shoulder. He can feel the puckered edge of the old gunshot wound from Afghanistan there under his palm-- a scar that now mirrors the still red and tender wound to John's torso. It's a gentle touch, more so than John is prepared for, and he relax is further as their breathing slows and synchronizes. “You need sleep.”

“I don't,” John says, but it's a token protest and they both know it. 

“Hmm. The redness of your eyes and the horse quality of your voice states that you have not slept well in some time. Combining that with the fact that you have run into two doors and a wall suggest that you—”

“All right, Sherlock. You made your point.” John meets his gaze tiredly and shakes his head. “Don't think I can be climbing the steps right now.”

“Come on then.” With a slight smile Sherlock stands and grasping Johns hands helps the doctor to his feet. His leg is still weak and it trembles, threatening to drop him back to the floor, but Sherlock is there and he carefully wraps an arm around his waist to keep him upright and sturdy. Together they make their way out of the bathroom but John balks when Sherlock turns them to the left. 

“No—Sherlock, you shouldn't—”

“I have no need for my bed right now, and the sofa hurts your shoulder if you lay on it for too long. The least I can provide you is a comfortable place to sleep if your own bed is currently unattainable.“ Sherlock’s brusque reply stops John mid protest, and he keeps quiet as the detective helps him down on the mattress and then leaves to grab the first aid kit from the cabinet to find his injured hand with. Sherlock is surprisingly gentle and patient as he cleans the bloodied bite marks and then wraps them with gauze, and by the time he finishes tying it off Johns posture has drooped and he's fighting to keep his eyes open. It doesn't take much to guide the doctor to lay down on his side, although John balks at having his feet lifted up as well and does that himself. 

John’s partially afraid that the smell of Sherlock sheets will trigger another panic attack-- there is so very _much_ of the man surrounding him right now-- but while there is still a low thrum of anxiety under his skin there isn't any terror. 

“Do you… do you want me to stay?” And isn't the hesitation in Sherlock’s tone novel to hear? 

John desperately wants to say yes and allow the detective to satisfy his own fears, but he can't. His falling half-closed, closer to drowsing then alert, he shakes his head regretfully. “Not yet. Not sure… what I'd do if I was startled awake.”

One day, he thinks as he drops off. Dimly he's aware of the feel of Sherlock's soft fingers brushing back the hair at his temple before the detective folds the sheets up and quietly shuts the door as he leaves. As the strains of violin music thrums through the air, John stretches out and buries his nose beneath the coverlet and inhales the familiar musk-and-shampoo smell that is his best friend. One day he will be able to see Sherlock reaching for him without flinching; one day his anxiety and panic attacks will ease and he'll be able to sit with ease in Sherlock's company. ‘Safety, safety, safety,’ he tells himself as sleep claims him. ‘Sherlock is safety.’ He'll go to bed every night telling himself this until his fears believe it. 

One day, it will be enough.


End file.
